


Nice work if you can get it.

by Pennyplainknits



Category: Bandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Con Artists, Great Depression, Jazz Age, M/M, Pickpockets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-12
Updated: 2011-09-12
Packaged: 2017-10-23 16:53:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/252605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pennyplainknits/pseuds/Pennyplainknits
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1930s AU.  <em>The first time Brendon met Spencer Smith, he picked his pocket</em>.</p><p>This fic was the brain child of <span><a href="http://sadiane.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://sadiane.livejournal.com/"><b>sadiane</b></a></span> and <span><a href="http://zabira.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://zabira.livejournal.com/"><b>zabira</b></a></span>, who came up with the concept of a Great Depression AU where Spencer and Brendon are grifters (thieves/con men). S would randomly email me with things like “sleeping in barns!” and “Card games!” and “wearing suits!” and in the end I gave in and started writing it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nice work if you can get it.

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer** Fake as wooden nickel. I’m borrowing faces here. (Though Spencer is reputed to be a bit of a pool shark....)
> 
> This fic almost didn’t go anywhere, and that there is fic at all is all due to my best [](http://hermette.livejournal.com/profile)[**hermette**](http://hermette.livejournal.com/) who held my hand and told me, repeatedly, that it didn’t suck and that I should carry on writing and not give it all up to concentrate on podficI was inches away from deleting it all, and her support and belief was invaluable.  <33 Beta by the lovely [](http://sunsetmog.livejournal.com/profile)[**sunsetmog**](http://sunsetmog.livejournal.com/) , with additional beta and ameri-picking by the equally lovely [](http://were-duck.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**were_duck**](http://were-duck.dreamwidth.org/) thank you to both!!

**Kansas City: Everything starts somewhere**

The first time Brendon met Spencer Smith, he picked his pocket.

The kid brushed past him, getting up from the poker game at Tom’s Place, and it was automatic, movements so long practiced Brendon didn’t even have to think about it. Brendon slipped away into the crowds near the bar, all nursing tumblers of rough gin, and then out into the muggy Kansas night.

He was halfway down the street, already thinking of his bed and his digs, when he heard footsteps behind him, loud and clipped even over the rattle of the tramcars.

“You got something that belongs to me.”

Brendon ducked his head and kept walking, but a hand on his shoulder spun him around and pressed him against the wall.

“Won’t ask again,” the kid said.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Brendon said.

“Yes you do. Give it back, and I won’t say anything.”

“What could you say?” Brendon bluffed.

“That you also lifted Jake Falcone’s watch. I hear his mother gave him that on her deathbed. He’d be...upset.”

Someone with a face that young shouldn’t be able to glare so fiercely.

Brendon opened his mouth to deny it, but the kid was quicker, flashing in and out of his pocket and coming up with the billfold, and the watch.

“This is too well-known to fence,” the kid said.

“Only in Kansas City,” Brendon said. “How did you know I had it?”

“You’re good.” The kid leaned against the wall and pulled out a cigarette case. “I’m better.” He struck the match, an orange flare in the darkness.

“I picked your pocket, didn’t I?” Brendon said, irritated. He reached out for a cigarette and the kid didn’t stop him.

“But I caught you.” He leaned forward and lit the cigarette, the light press of his hand on Brendon’s too warm in the chill of night.

“So now what?” Brendon said, and took a drag to cover his reaction. “Going to turn me over to the cops?”

“No,” he said, and blew a plume of smoke out. “I’m going to take you to the Rose on 7th. The pool match there is a two-man job, and your hands are quick enough.”

Brendon knew that. The take was big, but with the heavies there, a guy without a partner didn’t stand a chance.

“Fifty-fifty?” he asked.

“Sixty-forty,” the kid said. “At first.”

“Don’t I get your name?”

“Smith.” The kid flicked the butt out into the street.

“Real name,” Brendon said.

“That is my real name. Spencer, if you prefer.”

Brendon realized he had no idea if he was lying. He raised his bowler all the same.

“Brendon Urie,” he said. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

Spencer smiled, bright and wide, and Brendon knew it wasn’t the gin that was making his stomach turn over.

“It will be,” he said.

  
"So, what's the plan then?" Brendon asked. They had a few hours before the pool game at the Rose really got going, and he'd insisted on getting something to eat. Spencer had wavered, but he was the one asking (telling) Brendon for the favor so they'd stopped by a diner and ordered the special. The meat was stringy in its tomato sauce, but it was the first meal Brendon had had today so he wasn't going to complain.

"You know about the game?" Spencer asked, wiping a piece of bread around his plate.

"Of course," Brendon nodded. Everyone knew about the monthly pool game at the Rose. It was a decent place to lift a wallet or two, but every con roundabouts knew that, and Brendon hadn't tried his luck there more than once.

"We get the pot, and split it," Spencer said, like it was that easy.

"You're going to play for it?" Brendon asked, doubtful. He'd seen Hank play.

"Well, I could," Spencer shrugged, "but I thought I'd distract people, and you could lift the pot. We meet back and split it sixty-forty."

"Fifty-fifty," Brendon said again, instantly, "Since I'm doing all the work and all."

"Just try doing it by yourself and see how far you get," Spencer replied, "and I could change my mind about the watch, you know."

He glared, but Brendon thought he did have a point. It was a two man job.

The bar was crowded, smoky, and noisy as they pushed their way through the throng to get closer to the pool table. Spencer leaned close and whispered,”The money's kept in the bag behind the bar. They count it in front of everyone and then put it there until the game is over. Everyone’s watching the players. I'll take care of the bartender, but you need to be quick."

"You already know I am," Brendon said, already looking at different ways in and out and checking his exits.

The bar was mostly full, which made cover much easier. Spencer had already melted away into the crowd and Brendon did the same, sitting quietly at the end of the bar, head down, just another person out to drink and forget.

The distraction came halfway through the last game. A raised, drunken voice cut through the murmur of the bar.

“All I’m sayin’ no, lissen, lissen,”

Brendon glanced over to see Spencer grab the big guy next to him by the lapels, and peer up into his face, the very picture of drunkenness.

“It’s, it’s a what, a _coincidence_ ,” Spencer poked him in the chest for emphasis, weaving a little. “That this guy Hank wins every time. Doesn’t seem right.” He waved a hand in Hank’s direction.

“Are you calling me a cheat?” Hank slammed his hand down on the pool table.

“If the hat fits,” Spencer hiccuped, then ducked the first punch so that the guy he was holding by the lapels got Hank's meaty fist right in his face.

The air filled with the sound of breaking glass and jeers. When the bartender looked over anxiously, moving along the bar closer to the fight, Brendon took his chance and slipped behind the bar, crouching down to the strongbox where the money was locked. It was a simple padlock, Brendon thought, pulling his picks out of his pocket. Less than twenty seconds to pick.

Unfortunately, that was 20 seconds more than he had.

“Hey!” There was a hand on his shoulder, and Brendon looked up into the face of the bartender.

“Um,” Brendon said. There was another crash and the bartender looked around just long enough for Brendon to wriggle free and hop over the bar.

“Stop him!” the bartender called. “He was trying to steal Hank’s money!”

Brendon slipped and weaved through the crowd, already heading for the side door, bouncing off people as they tried to grab him. He overturned a table with a crash, jumped over it and wrenched open the door as he felt hands grab at his coattails. He didn’t turn around, just kept running out into the night, down 7th, across the crosswalk and right onto Rosemont. He splashed through puddle after puddle, the water seeping through his old boots. He’d planned on buying a new pair with his cut of the take. Looked like he’d have wet feet for a while yet.

“Well, that didn’t go according to plan.”

Spencer’s voice was dry and, shockingly, right next to him. It seemed those long legs could carry him at a fair pace.

“You might want to pick up the pace,” Spencer continued. “Seeing as how I just punched Hank and big John to cover your escape."

“Are you mad?” Brendon panted. “They’ll be all over you.”

“Got to catch us first,” Spencer grinned, holding his hat on with one hand.

He likes the thrill, Brendon realized. Most of them did, if they were any good, but Spencer had seemed so contained.

The footsteps behind them were getting louder and closer, and Spencer ducked into a dark, shadowed doorway and dragged Brendon in after him, pressed close. Too close.

 _Don’t think about it_ , he told himself firmly.

“Shhhh,” Spencer hissed in his ear.

Brendon held his breath as the footsteps thundered past.

“That didn’t go according to plan,” Spencer whispered again.

“That was your idea of a distraction?” Brendon hissed. “A bar brawl?”

“If you were quick enough, it would have worked."

“It’s not my fault we have half of Hank’s boys on our tail because not only did we try to grab his prize money, you accused him of cheating .”

“He did,” Spencer still hadn’t moved and he was whispering directly into Brendon’s ear. “The game’s rigged. No one is that good at pool.” He paused. “Except me.”

He stood back, at last, and peered around Brendon.

“All clear,” he said. “But you’re right, we can’t stay here.”

“We?” Brendon asked.

“You were going to leave town anyway,” Spencer said.“You had a fence for that watch and it wasn’t here. We can travel together. I’ll give you a boost onto the freight train.”

Brendon thought, briefly, about riding the rails, huddled up with all the other drifters. But his feet were wet and he’d nearly been caught twice today.

“Or,” he said, pulling out one of the wallets he’d lifted in the bar, “we could just pay for our tickets like respectable gentlemen.”

Spencer gave him a questioning look.

“I always lift a few. Insurance, you know?” Brendon dipped his hand into the wallet and pulled out a sheaf of bills.

“I’d say this was one of Hank’s boys,” he said. “Don’t get this much money by being honest.”

Spencer held out his hand.

“No,” Brendon said “I just met you today, I’m not handing it all over. I’ll meet you at the station and we’ll buy our tickets then.”

“How do I know you’ll show up?” Spencer said, frowning.

“If we’re going to work together, you have to trust me,” Brendon said. “Be there or don’t be there, but I’m getting the 6 am train out of here.”

“6 am,” Spencer said at last. “I have to fetch my bags from my digs.”

“Right.” Brendon reached out and straightened Spencer’s hat, and tucked a dollar bill into the band as he did.

“Least I can do is buy you a drink, since you spilled yours,” he said, and slipped out into the night before Spencer could reply.

 **Independence: too darn hot**

Spencer curled his hands around the cup of coffee and eyed the crowds idly, waiting for Brendon to arrive. The thought that he _wouldn’t_ didn’t really cross his mind. Spencer read people, it was what he did, and Brendon didn’t strike him as the kind of person to cut out on him.

“Good idea,” Brendon said. Spencer looked up and frowned, and Brendon gestured at the coffee. “Do I have time before the train to get some?”

“Not really,” Spencer said. “The next train out is to Independence in ten minutes.”

“Guess that’s where we’re going then,” Brendon said, and he picked up his duffel and slung it over one shoulder, then plucked the mug out of Spencer’s hand and drank the last dregs.

“Hey!” Spencer protested.

“We’re going to be partners,” Brendon said confidently, “and that means sharing.”

He forgave Brendon once the train pulled out of the station. Brendon muttered “Back in a while,” and soon returned with two wallets, a deck of cards, three packs of smokes and a hip flask. Spencer hadn’t lost sight of him all the way down the carriage and back up, and he’d hardly seen any of the lifts. And he’d been _looking_ for them. Hands that quick were worth a cup of stolen coffee from time to time.

Brendon was twitchy, foot jiggling even as he leaned against the window and watched the dusty fields roll by. Spencer would put it down to nerves, but Spencer's seen how quick he is, and Brendon can’t be new to this. Brendon shuffled and reshuffled the cards, split and cut them and then fanned them back together. Well, two could play at that game.

Spencer reached out for the deck. They had watercolors of Lana Turner and Carole Lombard and Mae West on the backs. He split and shuffled them, faster than Brendon, at this at least.

“Two handed rummy?” he asked.

“I can see I’m going to lose,” Brendon smiled, eyes crinkling behind his eyeglasses, “but hit me.”

The train rattled into Independence mid-afternoon, and as they stepped onto the platform the heat hit like a blow. The sun was high in the sky, orange through the dust in the air. Spencer felt a fresh trickle of sweat spring up under his hat and mopped his face with his handkerchief.“Hot,” Brendon said, unnecessarily. He knocked into Spencer as people crowded by, flushed from the train, and Spencer checked his pockets automatically.

“I wouldn’t do that,” Brendon looked hurt. “You don’t steal from your own. We’re partners, isn’t that what you said?”

Spencer checked, just in case.

“Well, partner,” he said when he was reassured that his wallet was still there. “Let’s get out of here.”

The walk up into the town from the station was enough to have Spencer’s shirt sticking to his back in the heat. He knew his face would be red and flushed and he could feel his hair sticking to his forehead. Not really the best way to make a good first impression if they were going to try and stay here for a while. He wanted to fold his jacket over his arm, loosen his tie and shirt collar, but clothes were important if they wanted good digs. Although, looking around, Spencer thought that it might not matter so long as money changed hands. The town was dusty, half-dead. Buy the looks of it, he and Brendon could strip it of all its money in one day and still have time to catch a ball game. If pickings were as slim as they looked, Spencer thought, they won’t be here long.

There were a few people sitting out on stoops, waving fans listlessly against the heat, and Brendon stepped closer to him, out of the way of two children running down the sidewalk in pursuit of a third.

“Come on,” Brendon said, and tugged on his arm “It’s too hot to be outside. I’ll buy you a float,” and he tugged again. Spencer wasn’t sure how he felt about all the touching. Mostly he had to suppress the urge to check for his wallet again. He let Brendon steer him in the direction of the drugstore on the corner.

Inside was blessedly cool, and he took his jacket off and leaned his wrists against the marble counter. Brendon ordered and the clerk measured and poured and scooped, chocolate and root beer and cream soda and vanilla. Brendon presented him with a tall glass and a green striped paper straw. He had sweat rings around the collar of his shirt, and when he took his hat off and rubbed a hand through his hair, it stood up in dark, damp spikes.

Spencer sipped his float, considering. The clerk looked at them, bored, and moved down the counter when the bell over the door rang. Brendon took a long drink, and licked the ice cream off his upper lip.

“So, Spencer Smith,” he said “What are we going to do next?”

 **Odessa: Stacking the Deck**

“Will you stop _moving_?” Spencer hissed.

“I’m not doing anything,” Brendon said, even as he shifted from foot to foot again. He couldn’t help it. The excitement of a con about to go down was rolling though him, and he just wanted to run up to the card table and get started.

Spencer clamped his hand down on his wrist. His grip was tight, and just this side of painful.

“If you don’t calm down, you’ll blow our cover,” he said quietly. “There’s only so far people will believe that you’re nervous.”

“Who says I’m not?” Brendon eyed the door to the cards room, waiting for it to open. It wasn’t that they expected there to be a big pot, but the last of their cash had gone on breakfast this morning, and Brendon’s fence seemed to have disappeared. The cufflinks weighed heavy in his pocket, as good as useless without Nathaniel. If they didn’t find something they’d be sleeping outside again.

“You don’t have to win,” Spencer said. He nodded to the barkeep and pushed the glass forward to be refilled, even though Brendon had seem him tip the last shot casually into the glass of the guy next to them. He wanted other card players to see him drinking, Brendon supposed. “You actually have to lose, so everyone gets overconfident. We’ve been over this. I thought you could play poker.”

“I can,” Brendon said, scratching the mosquito bite on his neck. His shirt itched, still too warm despite the late hour. “It’s just usually easier to, well -”

“What?” Spencer’s mouth twitched in a way Brendon was beginning to learn meant he was amused. “Steal it from whoever won it?”

“Well, yes,” Brendon said. “I play to my strengths.” The guy next to him, who’d been unknowingly drinking triple gins for the last hour, stumbled into him, drunk, and Brendon took the opportunity to relieve him of his wallet.

“Come on,” Spencer said, “Door’s open.”

Brendon slipped him the $10 buy-in fee as they went over, tucking it in the pocket of Spencer’s pants and pinching his side so that Spencer knew.

Brendon could barely see the dealer though the heavy haze of cigar smoke, a tall guy with long fingers who watched them all with sharp eyes.

“Gentlemen, the game is seven card stud, best of five, aces are high. If I catch you cheating, well, you may walk out of here, but you’re going to want someone to cut your food and wipe your ass for you, so I wouldn’t try.”

Brendon saw one of the other players gulp slightly and shift in his seat. He studied his cards and was glad his part in the plan was to lose, because with a hand like this, he didn’t stand a chance.

“That’s it,” Brendon said, putting his cards down, a few minutes later. “I’m out.” He sat back in his chair to watch the rest of the game. No one had told him to leave, and he was sure that the guy who had shifted uneasily was running some kind of con, his eyes flicking to the dealer and back like he was scared of being found out.

Spencer was impossible to read. He played like he was bored. Like he could have been anywhere and the cards just happened to have appeared. He was being cautious though, feeling the other players out, noting when they bet, and when they didn’t, who pulled their ear, who clicked their tongue. The cigar smoke swirled in the air, turning yellow in the lamplight, and Brendon crossed one leg over the other so he didn’t tap his foot in impatience as the game wore on.

One by one players folded, with grace, or irritation, or resignation. Spencer’s face was a mask of flawless disinterest, each bet or hold almost an afterthought.

“No,” Spencer said, when the twitchy guy put his cards down. “No.”

“What do you mean, no?” he asked, hand already going for the pot.

“I mean you played a card you weren’t dealt,” Spencer said evenly.

“I don’t like been called a cheater-” he said, hotly.

“Don’t cheat, then,” Spencer said. “It’s quite simple.”

The dealer looked at him. “You seem sure of yourself.”

Spencer fanned his cards out. Now there were two Kings of clubs on the table.

“What can I say,” Spencer said, as the dealer nodded to two guys who were leaning against the wall. They picked the cheater up under the arms and hauled him outside. “I just hate when people are dishonest.”

Brendon bit the inside of his cheek to stop from laughing out loud.

“And I believe that makes this mine,” Spencer said, scooping the pot toward him, wrinkled bills and the odd nickel and dime. “Gentlemen.” He nodded to them all and folded the money away before picking up his hat and sauntering out of the room like he hadn’t a care in the world.

Brendon stretched out his arm for his drink on the side table and sipped it slowly, taking his time. Waiting for Spencer to leave the bar so they wouldn’t be connected.

“You may as well follow your partner,” the dealer said. He stood, and Brendon had to look far, far up into his face. “I’m not stupid, and neither are the people who work for me.”

Brendon took a breath to deny it, tensed his legs ready to run, but the heavies were back in the room, and he felt the weight of a hand on his shoulder, pushing him back down into the seat.

“Want us to deal with him too, Mr. Saporta?”

“Hmmm,” Saporta flicked a coin over his knuckles, back and forth and back and forth, quick as a snake striking. “No. After all, they didn’t steal from me this time. And they’re not going to, are you?”

Brendon had absolutely no qualms about lying if it meant he wasn’t going to get roughed up.

“We’re leaving town tonight,” he said. “You won’t see us again.”

“Where you headed?” Saporta asked. He nodded and the hand left Brendon’s shoulder.

“Wherever the rails take us,” Brendon grinned, relieved.

“How ‘bout you let them take you to Warrensburg? The game at the Neon has a bigger pot, and a dumber dealer.”

“Why are you-” Brendon asked because it didn’t _feel_ like a trap, but he didn’t know what it did feel like.

“The owner upset a trusted associate. I can’t do anything. But that doesn’t mean you can’t. Call it a tip, from one professional to another. And don't try anything in my place again or you might not find me so accommodating."

Brendon nodded, not sure what to say. He knocked back the last of his drink, whiskey rough in his throat, and hurried out to find Spencer before anyone could change their minds.

 **Montgomery City: Not quite a feather bed**

The rain appeared out of nowhere, breaking the humidity with a crack of lightning across the bruise-grey sky. It wouldn't have been so bad if they'd been near a town, but they were walking in the middle of nowhere. There was a barn up ahead in the distance and they started to run for it.The thunder rolled overhead, louder than the railroad.By the time they got inside the barn they were wet to the skin.

"It'll blow over by morning," Spencer said confidently, and the thing is, Brendon believed him. Because it had been three months, and Spencer was pretty much never wrong. Pretty much.

The barn was abandoned, a few lonely bales of hay and scratchy horse blankets but no actual animals. Brendon had already draped his coat over a bale of hay when he asked, "Staying here tonight?"

Spencer nodded and hung his hat on a harness peg. "No sense in getting any wetter than we already are." He plucked at his shirt, pulling the wet fabric away from his skin, and Brendon forced his eyes to slide away, as always..

Brendon had cheese and sausage in the bottom of his duffel, and it made a decent supper along with Spencer's hip flask. There was a faucet outside, but neither of them wanted to get wetter to see if there was any water to be had. By the time they had eaten, and thrashed out what went wrong with the last con, the sky had darkened to black.

"Might as well sleep now," Spencer said. "If we get an early start tomorrow we can pick up the freight train at noon."

Brendon climbed up into the hayloft and Spencer slid in behind him, spreading the horse blanket over them both, stiff and scratchy and smelling faintly of horse sweat. Brendon turned his face into the crook of Spencer's neck, and all he could smell was Spencer.

Brendon woke first, the pale golden light filtering in through the dusty windows and catching the motes of dust in the air. He lay quietly for a few minutes, just looking, taking his fill of Spencer’s face. Soft in sleep, the fringe of lashes against his cheeks, the freckles on his nose, the dip at the base of his throat. Times like this were the only chances he could get to look and look. Spencer was observant, it was what made him good at what he did and so Brendon quickly learnt to store up times like these, where he could look and wonder, without fear of discovery.

The day was already hot, the temporary break from the thunderstorm quickly forgotten. The air smelled of damp earth. Brendon slipped out of the hay loft and down the ladder. He washed his face and hands at the faucet outside. He was ducking his head under it, water dripping cool down his back, when Spencer pushed the door open. He had dust on the knees of his pants.

“Morning,” he said, and Brendon stood aside to let him have his turn at the faucet. In the distance, he heard the whistle of the train.

“Morning,” Brendon replied. “I wish we had breakfast,” he said, because he couldn’t say what he wanted to.

Spencer laughed. His wet eyelashes were clumped together .

“It’s a couple miles to the next town. Think you can wait?”

“I can if you share the apples you’ve got stashed away in your pack,” Brendon said, watching as Spencer wiped his face with his shirt.

“You know me too well,” Spencer said.

 _I’m getting there_ , Brendon thought.

 **St Louis: Friends just off the key of legal**

There was something different about this town, Brendon thought. Three and half months they’d been travelling, and while people took to Spencer quickly (and just as well) they hadn't met anyone Spencer had _known_ before.

The waitress in the diner greeted Spencer with a motherly smile, and a pat on the shoulder.

The diner was crowded and warm, even warmer than the heat of the day. It smelled of eggs and bacon and the bitter edge of burned coffee. They sat elbow to elbow at a tiny corner table and were jogged by passing customers, men grabbing hot food because their digs had no kitchen, a well-dressed girl who stuck out like a sore thumb, someone from the assistance program, ticking boxes and trying to find work for the whole town.

The waitress came over and pulled the pencil out of her bun, poised over the pad of paper.

“Waffles for me,” Spencer said, “ham and eggs for Brendon.” By now, there wasn’t really any need to ask. “And coffee too. Lots of coffee”

“We need more sugar,” Brendon said, picking up the shaker. It was nearly empty, and if they were going to be here long enough to drink more than one cup he’d need more.

Spencer rolled his eyes at that, but Brendon liked to indulge. He’d had long enough choking down cups of rough black coffee to turn down sugar when it was on offer.

“There’s something for you, Spencer,” the waitress said. She pulled a thin parcel out of her apron pocket. “I keep telling you, we’re not the Post Office.”

“Thank you, Meg,” Spencer said, ignoring the jibe. He pulled at the string, and unwrapped a silk rose.

“A more inquisitive woman would ask who is leaving you flowers,” Meg said.

“A more inquisitive woman wouldn’t get this,” Spencer said, and tucked a folded bill into Meg’s pocket as she poured them coffee, and then left them to it.

Spencer picked up the rose and tapped it thoughtfully against his lips, dark pink against light. Then he smiled and turned over one of the leaves. Brendon could see the chicken scratch of writing on them.

“A rose?” Brendon asked. He leaned back to let Meg set down the plates, the rich scent of the ham making his mouth water. “What kind of message is that?”

“Ryan’s in town,” Spencer said. “That's what this means. Eat, and then we’ll go see him.”

“What about digs?” Brendon asked. It was their routine. Eat, somewhere where they could put an ear to the ground, find someplace to stay, plan the next job.

“No need,” Spencer said. He spread butter on his waffles and drizzled over some syrup, “We’ll stay with Ryan.”

 _Who’s Ryan?_ Brendon wanted to ask, but Spencer had that focused look, so he concentrated on eating, cutting his ham into pieces and scooping up his lumpy eggs.

“We grew up together,” Spencer said as they got off the streetcar in what looked like a pretty upscale neighborhood. Spencer had the rose tucked into his buttonhole, a completely unfamiliar splash of color against his grey suitcoat. “Taught each other everything we know. _Everything_.”

There was something behind those words that Brendon couldn’t figure out.

“Are you sure this is the right place?” he asked, as they turned up the wide gravel drive of a house set back from the street. An actual maid opened the door.

“We’re here to see Mr. Ross,” Spencer said. “He left word that I should look him up if I was in town. Spencer Smith and my associate, Brendon Urie.”

“Please, take a seat in the parlor,” the maid gestured. “I will go and see if Mr. Ross is free.”

“What kind of friend have you bought us to?” Brendon asked, as they sat down. There were vases of roses, red and yellow and peach, on all the side tables, filling the room with their scent. A cabinet held enough silver to make his fingers itch, but he decided that it wouldn’t be polite to steal from Spencer’s friend, even if it looked like he could well afford it.

“Ryan,” Spencer looked around and Brendon followed his gaze. The man that had stepped into the parlor was not at all what Brendon had expected- someone neat and competent and tidy like Spencer. Ryan had dark wavy hair, just brushing his collar. A bright silk handkerchief the same color as Spencer’s rose tucked into his pocket, and a swoop of scarf draped around his neck and shoulders. His shoes were shined as bright as the jet buttons on his vest. He looked at Spencer with big dark eyes for a second before Spencer got up, and then he took two steps forward and swept Spencer into an embrace.

And Spencer, Spencer _let him_. Spencer, who had taken a month to stop twitching every time his elbow knocked Brendon's, let his head fall to Ryan’s shoulder and nosed at his ear and hugged him..

Brendon sat back in his seat, unsure what to say. Unwilling to name the bile rising in his throat as jealousy. He’d wondered, sometimes, about Spencer. He never looked at women, and sometimes, Brendon thought, he looked at him. He should be happy to have it confirmed.

But he still wasn’t looking at Brendon. He was looking at Ryan.

Spencer pulled back with a gasp of a laugh.“It’s good to see you, Ryan.”

“You too,” Ryan said. “Who’s this?” He jerked his head in Brendon’s direction.

“This is Brendon,” Spencer said, and Brendon stood up, staying close to Spencer.

“It’s not like you to travel with someone,” Ryan said.

“You should see his hands,” Spencer said. “He might even be quicker than Bill.”

“No one’s quicker than Bill,” Ryan said.

Brendon had had enough.

“Brendon Urie,” he said, palming the rose that had been in Spencer’s lapel, and holding it out to Ryan.

Ryan raised an eyebrow.

“I take that back,” he said, looking impressed. “Not many people are quick enough to do that to Spencer.”

“I’m not, really,” Brendon said. “I mean, he caught me. That’s how we met.”

Ryan took the rose from him, and tucked it back into Spencer’s buttonhole.

“Not like you at all,” he said, softly, like Brendon wasn’t meant to hear.

There was the sound of a throat clearing.

“Mr. Ross, I’ve prepared the green and blue rooms for your guests,” the maid said. “I can show them up now.”

“Thank you, Nell,” Ryan said. “I’ll show them up. Mr. Smith and Mr. Urie and I are old friends, and I’d like the opportunity to exchange news before Mrs. Hollings wakes.”

The maid nodded, and melted out of the room.

“You’ll love the green room Spence,” Ryan said, formality gone as he led them up a grand staircase. “It has its own bathroom and the bath’s big enough for you to lie down in. The blue room links in through the bathroom. Should you need two rooms,” he said.

Brendon didn’t want to think too much about the implications of that.

“I’ll leave you to wash up,” Ryan said, opening the door to the room. “Lunch is at 1 o’clock. Are we going with the veteran story?”

“It’s the easiest,” Spencer said. “Thanks, Ryan.”

“Any time,” Ryan nodded, and carried on down the hallway, scarf floating along behind him.

Brendon couldn’t really get a handle on the con Ryan was running until they were all sitting down to lunch. Ryan escorted in a woman with grey-white hair, her frail, blue-veined hand clasped tight round his arm.

“Ellie, darling, these are two of my oldest friends,” Ryan said, pulling her chair out for her and taking the one on her right. She held out a hand and he took it, interlocking their fingers. “Spencer Smith, and Brendon Urie. Our fathers served together in France.”

“Very pleased to meet you,” Ellie said, “any friend of my dear Ryan’s is always welcome here. What brings you to town?”

“We were just passing through,” Spencer said, with his professional smile. “But we heard Ryan was in town, and we had to stop in to catch up. We won’t trespass on your time too long, Mrs. Hollings.”

“Oh, please, call me Ellie. And nonsense, you must stay until the weekend at the very least. I’m sure Ryan would love to spend time with his friends after all this time with just an old woman like me for company.”

“Hey,” Ryan squeezed her hand and kissed her cheek, and she smiled, turned toward him like a flower to the sun, and Brendon was hit with a jolt of admiration for his sheer cheek. “I like spending time with you.”

“We’d love to stay, if it’s not too much trouble,” Brendon said.

“Not at all,” Ellie said. “Now, eat. If you’ve been travelling, you must be hungry.”

“Does he do this a lot?” Brendon asked, later. He’d tapped on the connecting door to find Spencer in his shorts and undershirt, sitting at the open window with a book in his hand. The breeze was cool, ruffling his hair, and his skin was pink from the bath water.

“Does who do what?” Spencer said, marking his place with his finger.

“Ryan. Seduce old ladies,” Brendon clarified.

“Everyone has to make a living.” Spencer shrugged.

“And it’s not so much seduce,” Ryan said, sticking his head in at the door. “Can I come in?”

“You never used to ask,” Spencer turned to him.

“You never used to not be alone,” Ryan retorted, but he came into the room and sat in the armchair, one leg crossed over his knee. This close, Brendon could see his shiny shoes were carefully mended, holes in the soles patched over.

“They’re bored,” Ryan said “They have too much money and nothing to spend it on. Why shouldn’t they spend it on me, and scandalize their hateful children in the process?”

“A long con,” Brendon said. “I get it.”

“More like a mutually beneficial relationship.” Ryan nodded, and poured himself a glass of water from the carafe by the bed. “And in the interests of maintaining it, don’t steal anything while you’re here.”

“I’m not stupid,” Brendon said, annoyed.

“I don’t know that,” Ryan said. “I don’t know you. I know Spencer.”

“Well,” Brendon said, “I guess I’ll leave you to catch up with Spencer so he can tell you I’m not an idiot.”

He slammed the door on his way out, a little more forcefully than needed, and lay down on the soft feather bed, not thinking at all about the kind of catching up Spencer might be doing.

True to his word, Brendon didn’t steal anything, even though the house was like a candy store, crammed with small, precious things, all of which Brendon wanted.

“You’re getting twitchy,” Spencer said one morning, putting his hand on Brendon’s knee to still him. “What’s the matter?”

“Do you actually have a job for us?” Brendon asked.

“I did, but we have a different one now,” Spencer said. “The reception Ryan’s going to on Saturday. We’re going too.”

“I’m not Ryan,” Brendon said, voicing the thought that had been at the front of his mind all week, “I’m sure he’d be a better partner again for you if you want to run some kind of con.”

“I don’t need Ryan,” Spencer said. The steam from his coffee cup swirled in front of his face and Brendon couldn’t read his expression. “I need your hands, and the rest of you.”

“Ryan -”

“- Is one of my oldest friends, and one of my most useful contacts,” Spencer said. “So we’re going to use his tip-off, go to this reception, and steal the jewelry in the safe there. Then we make a graceful exit on Sunday and fence it the next town over before anyone is any the wiser.”

“Why doesn’t Ryan steal it?” Brendon asked. He jiggled his leg again so Spencer would press down more firmly.

“He’s got a good thing here, it’s not really his style,” Spencer said. “And, the woman who’s hosting the reception upset Ellie. Ryan’s more sentimental than he likes to think.” There it was again, that small smile.

“You know him pretty well,” Brendon said. “Are you sure you don’t -”

“You’re my partner,” Spencer said. “That’s that.”

“But,” Brendon couldn’t find the words, so he brushed his fingers over the rose on Spencer’s lapel.

“You want one too?” Spencer said, misunderstanding. He plucked a pink one out of the vase on the breakfast table, and trimmed the stem with his penknife.

“There,” he said, tucking it into Brendon’s buttonhole. “Now we match.”

 **Springfield: Strutting Syncopators**

“Come on,” Brendon was nudging him along, one hand on his elbow. Spencer could feel his eye swelling shut as they walked. Next time he’d duck quicker, he told himself. “Just down here, I know a place.”

“Better be somewhere that won’t ask too many questions,” Spencer managed to grit out. He could taste blood, and he probed the inside of his lip gingerly with his tongue. Any decent boarding house would take one look at him, and at the rip in the knee of Brendon's pants and the scrapes on his knuckles, and turn them away as bad news. Or else make them pay more, figuring they couldn’t be choosy, not at this time of night and with their injuries.

“Oh, she’ll ask all right,” Brendon said, “but we’ll be fine. Hey, _hey_ , Spence, come on, two more blocks.” Spencer jolted at the noise and found that he’d stopped, leaning against the wall as his head spun.

“Hey,” Brendon peered into his face, “You’ll be ok. Here,” and he pulled his pocket handkerchief out. “Spit."

Spencer wanted to roll his eyes, but it would have hurt too much. Instead he spat twice on the ground to clear the blood from his mouth, and then spat on the cloth.

“There we go,” Brendon said softly, and wiped the blood out of his eye. His hat was God knows where, and Spencer was glad he’d put his emergency cash in his waistband this time. “Can you see better now?” Brendon was asking, and Spencer realized he’d drifted again. “Should we try to find a doctor?”

“I’ll be fine,” Spencer said. “Nothing broken. I just need to get cleaned up and into a bed.”

“Come on then,” Brendon said, and he slid his arm around Spencer’s waist. Spencer leaned in, just a bit.

He brought them to a bar with a simple painted sign over the door that just said, “Morgan’s” and nothing else. Spencer hung back.

“Brendon, we’ve already been in one bar fight tonight,” he said. “If this is your way to get cash for digs forget it, I’ve got-”

“This is the digs,” Brendon said. “Around the back, this way.”

The door in the side street was locked, but that didn’t stop Brendon for longer than a few seconds.

As soon as they were inside, Spencer heard music, and a busy crowd. Must be a pretty hopping place if there was a band.

“I’ll put you in the back room, then go see Greta,” Brendon said. “Along here.”

Spencer's head was spinning, and he was glad of the couch that Brendon led him to.

“Bathroom is there,” Brendon pointed to a pale blue door in the corner of the room. “If you feel dizzy, wait and I’ll come and help. I just need to let Greta know we’re here.”

His words sounded slow and far away, and Spencer just wanted to sleep for a little while. He knew that was a bad idea, so he said, “Is Greta your Ryan?”

Brendon smiled and shook his head, and Spencer knew that he’d understood all the unspoken elements of that question.

“She’s my Greta.”

Spencer took his jacket off and folded it carefully over the arm of the couch, and loosened his tie so he could take it over his head before unbuttoning his vest. He wetted his handkerchief in the bathroom and cleaned off the rest of the blood that Brendon’s rough wipe hadn't caught. More music filtered back to him, something fast and syncopated, for dancing, and it got suddenly louder as the door opened.

“Are you sure you didn’t hit your head?” Brendon asked, coming into the bathroom. His face in the mirror was concerned.

“I didn’t,” Spencer prodded at his eye, where the bruise was already blooming. “I’m just tired. It’s why I made the mistake in the first place.”

“Well,” Brendon said, “mail vans aren’t the most comfortable places to sleep in, especially mail vans with screaming babies. Here.” He turned Spencer with a hand to his shoulder and held a washcloth full of ice to his eye. Spencer winced at the cold, but pressed the cloth more firmly to his face as Brendon stepped back.

“Greta says we can stay here tonight at least,” Brendon said, opening a cupboard and pulling out blankets. He seemed to know his way around and Spencer made a note to ask why, once he’d had some sleep. “I got you a sandwich, if you think you can eat it.”

“Maybe in the morning,” Spencer said.He pulled the ice away from his eye and held it against his lip instead. “I just want to sleep, really.” He was so tired his head felt foggy.

“Take the couch,” Brendon said. “It’s more comfortable. Come on, lie back.”

The last thing Spencer remembered was Brendon covering him with one of the blankets, and untying his shoes.

  
Spencer woke to more music, and for a few seconds, he thought he hadn’t been asleep at all. Then he forced his eyes all the way open to see the early fall sunlight through the curtains. Brendon was nowhere to be seen, but there was another sandwich sitting on the table, along with a glass of water and a bottle of aspirin. Spencer noticed a small stack of folded blankets with a cushion on top of them sitting against the wall, and had a pang of guilt that Brendon had obviously had to sleep on the floor.

He washed his face, going carefully around his eye - now a vivid purple - and dug a clean shirt out of his case. His head felt clearer, so he left the aspirin and just ate the sandwich, turkey and provolone, and carried the water with him as he went to investigate.

He tried a couple of doors before he found one that was unlocked and led to the area behind the bar, full of dusty glasses and empty bottles waiting to be returned and the smell of stale beer. The music was louder now, something sweet and slow on a piano in the morning light quite different from the fast songs of the night before.

The bar was empty, and shabby. The chairs were stacked up on the tables against the walls, but it was bigger than it had seemed from the unassuming entrance, a wide high-ceilinged room, filled with slanting beams of golden sunlight, catching the dust motes and making them sparkle.

Spencer slipped out from behind the bar as a voice joined the piano part. He looked around, for the radio or the record player, but then he realized that the piano itself was in the room, set on a stage at the far end. He took another few steps forward, and there was Brendon. Sitting at the piano, playing. Shirt sleeves hitched up with elbow garters and his tie nowhere to be seen. The sunlight hit his face as he started to sing

  
 _Do you know what it means  
To miss New Orleans  
and miss it each night and day?_

Spencer took a few more steps forward and his shoes squeaked on the scuffed floor. Brendon looked up at him and met his eyes, but didn’t stop singing,

 _I know I’m not wrong  
this feeling’s getting stronger  
the longer I stay away_.

His voice was smooth and resonant, even singing quietly, and the piano rang out in the empty room, the melody lazy, sounding like summer heat and smoke. His hands were quick and nimble on the keys, deft in this as in everything else.

Spencer listened to the whole song, and wondered if Brendon would ever stop surprising him.

“How’s your eye?” Brendon asked. He was still idly playing, small scraps of tune, rippling chords.

“Purple,” Spencer said, pointing to the bruise. He sat on the piano bench next to Brendon. “Why didn’t you tell me you could play?”

“It didn’t really seem important,” Brendon said. He switched up to something dreamy and sweet, and Spencer recognized _Lullaby of Birdland_

“Thank you for the sandwich,” Spencer said, at a loss for what else to say.

“That was Greta,” Brendon said. “She said you should have eaten last night. She made me take you the sandwich before she let me in to play.”

“And you couldn’t just have picked the lock?” Spencer smiled. Every time Brendon played a low note his arm brushed Spencer’s.

“Yes, but I wouldn’t. We’re guests.”

“And he knows what I’d do to him, if he did,” a woman’s voice put in.

“Greta,” Brendon stopped playing and stood up. “This is Spencer. See, I told you he was going to be fine.” He patted Spencer on the shoulder.

Spencer had vaguely been expecting someone motherly, someone who would want to look after Brendon. Instead, Greta was a blonde with a figure to put Jane Russell to shame. She gave him a pointed look as he held out his hand.

“Spencer Smith,” he said. “Thanks for the sandwich.”

“Greta Morgan.” She shook his hand with a short firm jerk. “Try not to get into any fights here, ok?”

“Greta!” Brendon said. “I told you, it wasn’t on purpose.”

“Brendon, you broke into my bar in the middle of the night with a bleeding partner,” Greta said. “And look at your hands. How are you supposed to play if you hurt them?”

“My hands are fine,” Brendon flexed them, but Spencer could see the scrapes beginning to scab over, the skin around them red and inflamed. “I’ll be able to play tonight. I can play now.”

“Play tonight?” Spencer asked.

“That’s our deal,” Greta said. “Brendon can stay here, and I won’t ask questions, but he plays in the evening. And he doesn’t steal from my regulars.”

“It works pretty well,” Brendon nodded.

“It keeps him out of trouble,” Greta said, “relatively speaking. You’re the first person he’s brought here though. What can you do?”

“I’m sorry?” Spencer asked, not sure what she meant.

“Times like this, charity doesn’t pay the bills,” Greta looked stern. “Do you play anything? We’re short a clarinet player for this weekend.”

“He could play the washboard,” Brendon said, and he didn’t even try to hide his smile.

“No,” Spencer said. He had the distinct impression that Greta was less than impressed with him.

“Hmmm.” She sat down on the piano bench and played a few scales, and Brendon joined in as they moved into a two handed duet. “How about tending bar? You any good with people?”

“I’m the best,” Spencer said.

  
The bar in the evening was different from the dusty quiet of the morning, full of the press of bodies and the haze of cigarette smoke, and the smell of cheap scent. Spencer mixed drinks and poured gin and opened bottles, and it was as good a place as any to keep an ear to the ground for possible jobs. He had no idea who the ‘regulars’ were that Brendon wasn’t supposed to steal from, but he supposed Brendon did. He had two mental notes about poker games with big pots and around a dollar and a half in tips, when the lights on the little stage went up and Brendon and Greta walked out on stage. He listened with half an ear to the first song as he counted out change, foot tapping to the beat.

Greta sang five songs, voice sweet and smooth, then stepped down from the stage and Spencer lost sight of her as he served people. The piano continued, and Brendon started to sing, that strong clear voice that Spencer hadn’t even _known_ about floating over the crowd.

“I thought you said you needed a clarinet player?” he asked Greta when she slipped behind the bar and poured herself a drink. “Where's the band?” He forced himself not to twitch his hips at the rhythm.

“Only on weekends,” she said. “Not during the week. Brendon’s here till the weekend. Once word gets out, people will come. Every time he turns up he's good for my cash flow.”

Spencer hadn’t really planned on them staying longer than a couple of nights, just long enoughfor his bruises to fade so he didn’t look like trouble. He looked out again at Brendon, chatting to people close to the stage, playing with the same mingled look of concentration and joy he got when he did a tricky lift, and he supposed it couldn’t hurt to stay.

Honest work, if only for week. He’d never have thought it.

  
“I learned when I was a kid,” Brendon said quietly, later that night. Spencer turned over on the couch. He was cold, and he hugged his arms around himself.

“Oh,” he said. “You’re good. I didn’t know.”

“I didn’t tell you,” Brendon said, and in the dim light filtering in from the windows, Spencer could see him shrug. “But, now you know. Greta needs me till this weekend.”

“I know,” Spencer said. He really was chilly. Maybe he could find another blanket. “It’s ok. I like listening to you.”

Brendon shifted round, and reached up from the camp bed that had mysteriously appeared during the day to pat the couch, fumbling around until his hand landed on Spencer’s arm.

“Thank you,” he said, and patted him. “Night.”

“Night,” Spencer said, and concentrated on the small patch of warmth Brendon’s hand had left behind. The steady rise and fall of Brendon’s breathing felt like a lullaby.

Greta had been right, Spencer realized, when Saturday night rolled around and the crowd at the bar was three deep, people dressed for a night out dancing, shined shoes and slicked back hair and carefully painted lips. The air was thick with the smell of pomade and cheap scent and the buzz of noise grew louder as Greta stepped out on the stage and leaned into the microphone.

“We made it to the end of another week,” she said. “And you know what that means here at Morgan’s. Time to dance, and forget, just for a little while. We’ve got someone here some of you might know, and if you don’t, you will by the end of the evening - Brendon Urie, friends, let’s hear it for him!”

Brendon played something fast and infectious, a rag with jump and jive that had Spencer’s feet tapping, wanting to dance, then he waved to the crowd as the rest of the band filed on stage.

Spencer recognized most of the songs from the radio, but there were a few that he didn’t; lively, hopping songs perfect for dancing, which, he realized, had probably been written by someone in the band. Maybe, judging from the way he chatted to Greta, pale heads tilted together before each song, the guy on trumpet.

He served drinks automatically, because Brendon kept drawing his eye. It felt so different from picking pockets, where Brendon disappeared unless you were looking hard. Now he found he couldn’t look away. The band played and played, and Brendon stamped his feet and hammered the keys, and sang, his voice melding with Greta’s, warm and rich.

“Thank you, thank you everyone,” Brendon was saying, hours later. The crowds had thinned, and Spencer had nearly run out of bottled beer and had to send the kid - Alex, Spencer thought - down to the cellar to get more. “We’ve got one more song tonight to get you dancing, and then, well, you don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.”

He was bright and happy, the twitchiness that still annoyed Spencer sometimes changed to energy that the rest of the band fed off of.

Spencer was hoping for some more Jelly Roll but Brendon stood up from the piano and motioned to the guy with slicked back hair until he handed over his banjo.

“Banjo as well?” Spencer said, half to himself.

“He plays the drums too,” the guy at the bar said, holding out his hand for his drink. “I heard he’s been in Europe for the last year. Morgan’s is the only place to be in town when they’re all together.” He nodded at the stage and the girl he was with tugged at his arm to get further onto the dance floor.

Spencer, who knew for a fact that for at least the last six months the closest Brendon had been to Europe was that time they lifted that French man’s platinum cuff links, snorted and went back to polishing the glasses. He almost dropped one, fumbling the catch, when the words of the song filtered through and he looked up to see Brendon looking straight at him, strumming the banjo and singing

 _when to hearts become one,  
who could ask for anything more?  
Nice work if you can get it, and if you get it,  
oh won’t you tell me how?” _

How, indeed, Spencer thought absently, and put the glass carefully back on the shelf.

  
“Hey, kid,” Greta pulled a couple bills out of the night’s takings and held them out to Alex. “Run out to May’s and get us all sandwiches. You know what we like. Spencer?”

“Reuben,” Spencer said, re-counting the five dollar bills. “Brendon too.” His eyes were gritty with sleep and cigar smoke. The musicians were milling round on stage, clearly waiting for the sandwiches. Spencer was suddenly starving. Greta reached round him and pulled a bottle of brandy out from under the bar.

“Get the glasses,” she said, and when he did, she poured a round, and clinked her glass against his.

“Come and get it, guys,” she shouted, voice carrying easily even without the microphone. Most of the band came over, walking slowly and carrying their instruments, but Brendon was still deep in conversation with the trumpet player, tipping his head back to blow out a plume of smoke.

Spencer put a rubber band round the roll of bills and picked up one of the glasses. He caught snatches of conversation as he edged closer to Brendon.

“.....with Ray, back in Chicago,” the trumpet player was saying, “something with a bit more swing?”

“Like this?” Brendon stubbed out his cigarette and laid his hands on the keys, playing something that Spencer recognized as one of the pieces they’d done earlier, but faster.

Spencer put the glass on top of the piano and Brendon nodded in thanks.

“No, more like,” the other guy said, and played the melody on the trumpet, turning it into something with bounce and swing. Brendon grinned at him and joined, in, weaving the piano in and around the notes, spiky and lively and perfect for dancing. Spencer gave into the temptation and did a little soft-shoe, the bass of the piano pounding up through the soles of his feet as it had all night, making him want to move.

“More like it,” the trumpeter said, “It works for him, anyway. I’m hitting the sack.”

“G‘night Patrick,” Brendon said, and gave him a wave, one hand still running up and down the keys. “You didn’t tell me you could dance,” he said.

“Well,” Spencer said, feeling a bit foolish now that Brendon had switched to something slow and smooth, a lullaby, a waltz for lovers, “now you know.”

“I do,” Brendon said, and the music was soft, intimate even in the wide open space of the bar.

 **Lincoln: So near yet so far**

  
Brendon has the quickest hands Spencer's ever seen. It was why he'd stuck with him, even after that first con went south. Quick enough to steal the song from the birds, and a face that had the mark nodding and smiling even as Brendon lifted their keys, their wallet, their secrets.

He wasn't so good at the planning, the long con, but Spencer was, and together they just work. Spencer could pick pockets, sure, but Brendon was better, fingers long and sure on a set of lock picks, the tumbler of a safe or the catch of the window.

And the keys of a piano.

Brendon was loud, energetic, and excellent company. It wasn't like Spencer didn't see the rest of it. The looks, the touches that last a shade too long, the hand at the nape of his neck or the small of his back, fingers hooked into Spencer's belt as he guided him through a crowd. The way Brendon looked as him when he pursed his mouth around his cigarette, Brendon's hand on his jaw as he lit his own.

The law, and the Church, would say it's wrong, but Spencer was no stranger to breaking the law. With all that he's stolen, the people he's conned, taking Brendon to bed won't make much of a difference. That's not why he hasn't done it. Hasn't leaned all the way into Brendon's clever, clever hands or tasted his smoke filled kiss.

It was because their rhythm was so perfect, even after six months. They were going to get even better, Spencer could tell. They'll make each city their playground, fitting into the spaces left in cons with more manpower but less imagination. They will be glorious, and he wasn't going to risk that for anything.

So he looked, and sometimes he touched, but, even though it was getting harder and harder, he always pulled back.

  


 **Peoria: Dancing in the Dark**

“Wait here,” Spencer said, as they trudged through the huddled crowds down Main Street, heads ducked down against the freezing wind. Brendon dug his hands deeper into his pockets.

“Be quick,” he said. “I’m cold.”

Spencer pushed the door open and ignored him. Brendon looked at the lights strung across the front of the fancy gown shop across the street, reflecting green and red on the icy streets. The bell jangled and Spencer was at his side again, holding something that -

“Is that a banjo?” Brendon asked, feeling stupid. They’d not discussed anything that needed a banjo. He’d thought they were going with the journalist gig in this town.

“I won it,” Spencer said. “At the card game last night, while you were sleeping.”

He held it out, and Brendon took it from him.

“This is new,” he said, stroking the polished wood of the body, the finely-carved pegs. “You didn’t just win this in a back door draw.”

Spencer flicked his eyes down, looking at his boots.

“The guy owns this shop. I said I’d take it in trade.”

“But -” Brendon said. He couldn’t stop running his fingers over the neck, the fretboard. He plucked a string to hear the note ring out, quiet and sweet.

“You love it,” Spencer said, to his boots, “and we can’t carry a piano around with us, but I thought -” he shrugged. Brendon had never seen him at such a loss for words. “Happy Christmas?”

“Spencer -” Brendon said. He gripped the neck of the banjo hard, so he didn’t reach out like he wanted to. Like he always wanted to.

“Well,” he said, when he was sure his voice wouldn’t shake. “Let’s see if I can’t get you a present, too.”

There was a square at the end of the street, a tall tree dressed with ornaments and a string of lights standing tall in the center of it, men hawking hot dogs and hot pretzels and coffee around it. Brendon found a spot next to it and tuned the banjo, cold fingers warming up as he flexed them and framed chords, strumming until people turned around to see.

“Pass the hat, Spence,” he said, and started to sing.

He stuck with Christmas songs, ‘Silent Night’, ‘Jingle Bells’, ‘Joy to the World’. People began to gather, to drop coins into Spencer’s upturned hat as he wormed his way through the crowd, encouraging, charming, cajoling people to give. The sky darkened to inky black as he played, fingers sometimes slipping on the strings with the cold.

One girl, her sweetheart’s arm around her, asked for Winter Wonderland, and Brendon smiled bright as he strummed through it twice. He smiled even brighter when he saw the bill the boy dropped into Spencer’s hat. Brendon sang until his throat was hoarse from the freezing air, until snow started to fall, sticking to his glasses and melting on the strings, making his fingers squeak.

Spencer put the hat on the ground and clapped and stamped his feet along with the last song, then said, “That’s all folks. You all have a good night, and a good holiday. Thank you for your generosity, we’re just two guys trying to make it, just like we all are. Good night, and God bless.”

Brendon could barely unbend his fingers from around the neck of the banjo, but he only needed to look at Spencer’s face to know they’d gotten a decent amount. People were generous around the holidays.

“Your hands,” Spencer said, pocketing the money and putting his hat back on. “Here.”

Brendon took the offered gloves and pulled them on, flexing his fingers to warm them up, then jammed them into his pockets.

“How much did we get?” he asked.

“‘bout $15 and change,” Spencer said. “Easily.”

“Happy Christmas,” Brendon said, and he let himself sink a little closer and knock against Spencer as they slid along. “Don’t spend it all at once.”

The snow was falling thick and fast by the time they got to their boarding house, and Brendon had tucked the banjo under his coat, trying to protect the polished wood. Of course, that meant that he was even colder, the wind whipping in at the open front of his coat and cutting through his shirt like it wasn’t even there. They hurried up the stairs into the small room, and Brendon had his hands right on the black-painted radiator before Spencer had even switched the lamp on.

“You’ll burn yourself,” Spencer said.

“I’d actually have to be able to _feel_ my hands for that to happen,” Brendon said. The radiator didn’t give out much heat, but he could feel it bleeding though the woolen gloves, sluggish but there.

“Come on,” Spencer said, “at least take your coat off. It’ll never dry.”

He had his scarf unwound from his neck and his coat unbuttoned, hanging from his shoulders. Brendon reluctantly stepped back from the radiator and fumbled his gloves off. His hands were still red from cold, and he could feel the tingle of pins and needles at the sudden change in temperature.

“You’re not going to be much use to anyone if you get frostbite,” Spencer said, but Brendon could hear the thread of real worry underneath Spencer's awkward smile

“I don’t have frostbite,” Brendon said. “I’m just cold and my hands are stiff because I haven’t played in a few weeks, is all.”

“What kind of person busks in a snowstorm?” Spencer asked.

Brendon sat down on the broken down sofa and slowly tugged at his bootlaces, trying to unpick the wet knots.

“It wasn’t snowing when we started,” he said. He looked up, and Spencer was sitting beside him.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Spencer said, and Brendon’s fingers slipped on the button of his coat as he realized how close he was.

“You bought me a banjo,” Brendon said. “You didn’t have to do that. Who does that?”

“I know I didn’t have to,” Spencer said softly. “I wanted to.”

“But -”

“Brendon,” Spencer said, and all of a sudden his hand was on Brendon’s wrist. “I wanted to.”

Brendon froze at the pressure of Spencer’s hand, closed tight around his wrist. Spencer was so close now, so close that when Brendon let out a shaky breath it ruffled Spencer’s hair where it was growing in long over his forehead.

In the dim light of the room, Spencer’s eyes looked pale and washed out, his face made of shadows and his hair shining soft in the lamplight. Brendon could hear his own pulse thudding in his ears, and sitting so close, he imagined he could hear Spencer’s too, beating in perfect unison with his own, in time in this like in everything else.

He was going to pull back, he should pull back, but suddenly, Spencer’s hands were on his eyeglasses, the backs of his leather gloves cold against his cheeks, and Spencer was pulling Brendon's glasses off, folding the arms with a click, and setting them on the table.

Brendon held his breath.

Spencer leaned closer, even closer, and nudged his nose up next to Brendon’s. The tip of his nose was cold, and Brendon's eyes fluttered closed as Spencer slowly, so slowly, touched his lips to Brendon’s. A gentle press, as light and soft as the falling snow, and then he pulled back, just a little. Brendon let his breath out with a whoosh. Spencer pushed forward again; his lips were chapped from the cold, tentative here as he wasn't anywhere else. He kept on pressing small, close-mouthed kisses to Brendon’s lips until Brendon had to open his eyes, had to press his cold hands to Spencer’s warm cheeks and tug him nearer, and kiss him, and kiss him, and kiss him.

  


 **Chicago: Branching out Blues**

Spencer nosed at the back of Brendon’s neck, where the hair came in wavy and soft. Even with the blankets from both the beds, and Brendon’s body heat, he was still cold. Brendon shifted back against him, and Spencer was still getting used to being able to tug him closer, wrap his arms more firmly around him, rub his foot down Brendon’s calf as he whispered, “Morning.”

Brendon twisted round and kissed him, pulling the blankets further up around their ears.

“Morning,” he said, at last, and Spencer could feel his smile against his mouth. “Not good morning though.”

“Why not?” Spencer asked, shifting under the blankets.

“Too cold,” Brendon said. “Too cold to get up.”

“Too cold to go outside,” Spencer agreed, and snuggled closer. He was sure there was frost on the _inside_ of the windows, and knew that, were they to set foot outside, the wind would blow straight off the lake, bringing ice and snow with it. “Except, if we want the room until the end of the week, we actually have to. Thought we were going to run the Lost Heir on that place near the meatpacking plant?”

“Or, we could do something that means staying in the warm...” Brendon sounded oddly hesitant. “But it would mean staying here longer.”

“Here, meaning?” Spencer asked. Brendon was tense against him, and Spencer ran his palm down his back, feeling the flannel undershirt soft against his skin.

“Chicago,” Brendon said. He ducked his forehead down to Spencer’s collarbone.

“Explain.” Spencer said.

“I have an invitation. Had an invitation. When we were in Springfield. Patrick said, if we were in Chicago, we should look him up. We’re in Chicago, but.”

“But -” Spencer prompted. He put his hand under Brendon’s chin, and forced him to meet his eyes.

“But, it means staying in one place. It wouldn’t be like at Greta’s, where I could leave when I wanted. It would be a regular gig. Six nights a week. I thought, maybe you wouldn’t want to. Wouldn’t want to come with me. Would want to keep travelling. ” By the end of the sentence, Brendon’s voice was so quiet that Spencer could barely hear the words.

“I thought we were partners,” Spencer said, slowly.

“We are.” Brendon said immediately.

“Aren’t you tired of travelling around, not having a home, not having anywhere to come back to?” Spencer asked. He curled his hands round Brendon’s hips, snugging them together. Outside, the L rattled by. He’d have to get used to the racket.

“Yes,” Brendon said, still quietly.

“And could you cope, with Chicago being home? With me to come back to?”

“Are you - of _course_ ,” Brendon surged up and kissed him. “Of course.”

It was the only answer he needed.

“You really thought I wouldn’t want this too?” Spencer said, after a while. “Who’s going to keep you out of trouble?”

“We get each other _into_ trouble,” Brendon corrected. “That’s the point.”

“So, this place,” Spencer asked as Brendon inched his hand closer to the waistband of his underwear, “It opens in the evening?”

“Yes,” Brendon said. “So we’ve got some time to kill.”

“Whatever will we do?” Spencer asked and kissed Brendon in answer to his own question.

  
Kings was much bigger then Morgan’s. This didn’t seem to bother Brendon; he strode through the door and into the dingy hallway

“I have an appointment with Patrick,” he told the girl at the coat check. She didn’t even look up from her magazine, dark hair falling in a curtain over her face.

“He’s not here yet,” she said, licking her finger to turn a page.

“Oh, well, I can wait. I’m a little late,” Brendon smiled.

She looked up.

“How late?”

“‘bout three months?” Brendon grinned again.

Spencer sighed. “We can go on through,” he said. “We don’t want to bother you while you’re getting ready to open.” He slid a bill onto the counter.

She looked at him quickly, and pocketed the money.

“I'll tell him you’re here when he gets in,” she said. “Down the passage. You can wait in the club.”

The empty bar smelled like all empty bars, cigarette smoke and spilled beer and the lingering smell of stale sweat. Their footsteps echoed in the passage, until it suddenly opened out into a room, almost completely dark in the late afternoon gloom. It wasn’t empty, Spencer realized as they got close enough to hear music. His eyes adjusted enough to the dingy light to make out a man at the far end of the room. He sat on a high stool, the pale of his hands barely standing out in the dark room as they moved over the strings. His hair was unfashionably unruly, caught with threads of gold as he bent his head and played, and the music sounded like every regret Spencer had ever had, all pouring out of the guitar.

Beside him, Brendon’s breath caught.

“You know him?” Spencer whispered as the music rippled around the room.

“No, but,” Brendon said, “it has to be Ray.”

At the name, the man looked up.

“You guys lost?” he asked.

“We're here to see Patrick," Brendon said, and Spencer followed him forwards, to the edge of the stage.

"I didn't know he was expecting anyone." The man didn't look unfriendly, just curious.

"He told me to look him up, if I was in Chicago," Brendon gestured with the hand that held the banjo. "We did some stuff in Springfield, and he said -"

"Are you Brendon?" the man asked, smile breaking on his face.

"Yes, and this is my associate, Spencer Smith."

"Ray Toro."

His handshake was strong, with the calluses that Spencer had started to feel on Brendon's hands since Christmas. Musician calluses.

"That song you helped Patrick on is great," Ray said, stretching out one booted foot from the strut of the stool to rest on the floor, "Really great, it was just what it needed.”

“Thanks,” Brendon said. “It just seemed to work better that way. Um, so Patrick said to look him up, and here we are, so.”

“Well, let’s see what you’ve got,” Ray said, nodding at the piano. “I trust Patrick, but I still need to hear you.”

“He’s great,” Spencer said. “Just listen,”

Brendon hooked his foot round the leg of the piano stool, pulled it out and sat down, flexing his hands over the keys.

“I was going to play the banjo,” he said, looking over at Ray, “but I expect you’ve got that covered.”

“Piano’s good,” Ray said.

“Anything in particular you want?” Brendon ran his hands up and down the keyboard, a simple vamp underneath his words.

“Surprise me,” Ray said.

Spencer leaned against one of the small circular tables, and just listened. It was nothing he’d heard before, and he was half-certain that Brendon was improvising, snatches of phrases from songs twisting and turning into something new, something lively and quick and infectious. He played a few measures through, and looked up and caught Ray’s eye and nodded. Then the guitar joined in, Brendon’s chords falling back, quieter and solid, a background for the ripple of the strings as they wove around each other. Spencer was so absorbed in watching Brendon’s clever hands on the yellowed keys that he jumped in surprise when he heard the tap tap of patent soles on the floor, and the high, clear, pure notes of a trumpet picking up the melody and twisting it, changing it, soaring over the piano and the guitar. He looked around to see Patrick, who winked at him before turning back and bobbing his head in time with the tune. Spencer tapped his feet against the floor, the music feeding up through his soles, making him want to move. If they played like this every night, there wouldn’t be another place in Chicago worth going.

They finished off with a crashed chord and a flourish of brass, and all grinned at each other.

“He sings too,” Spencer put in, stretching his legs out in front of him.

“I knew you’d work well,” Patrick said, and looked over to Ray, who nodded.

“I’ll talk to Pete, get his say so, seeing as he owns the place,” Patrick continued, “but, as far as we’re concerned, you’re in. It pays twenty dollars a week, and you can meet the rest of the guys tonight.”

“No.” Spencer said as Brendon beamed, then looked confused.

“What do you mean, ‘no’?” he asked.

“I mean, twenty dollars isn’t enough,” Spencer said. He pushed himself up off the table, running the numbers in his head. “Greta’s takings went up ten percent at least when you played there. People _came_ to hear you play, they said. Greta did too. You play at least three instruments. So, you’re worth more than that.”

He looked at Patrick. “Twenty-five dollars a week.”

“There’s no way we can afford -” Patrick began, scratching his forehead under the band of his fedora.

“Twenty-two dollars and we renegotiate in six months, once you’ve seen I’m right,” Spencer said, ignoring Brendon’s glare and Ray’s incredulous laugh.

“Just who are you again?” he asked.

“Now?” Spencer said, feeling the thrum of the challenge in his veins, how it got when the angle was laid out right and everything worked. “I’m his agent.”

“Twenty-two dollars a week,” Patrick said, finally, and held out his hand for Brendon to shake. “And if your ‘agent’-” he raised an eyebrow at that-“could not bankrupt us, that would be good too.”

“So hey,” Spencer said softly, as he slid onto the seat next to Brendon while Ray and Patrick discussed set lists, “making an honest living now?”

“Mostly honest.” Under the cover of the piano, Brendon’s foot pressed against his. “Think you can cope with that?”

“I’ll learn,” Spencer said, “‘long as you learn with me.”

“I can manage that,” Brendon said.

 **Chicago: so this year**

It was the birdsong that woke Brendon, the sparrows returning with the spring and setting up a racket that he still wasn’t used to. He stretched out a leg, feeling the chill of the air on his shin as the covers slipped back.

Spencer was frowning at his reflection in the mirror as he looped his tie round his neck.

“Why are you up so early?” Brendon asked, swallowing against his dry mouth. They’d played hard last night, some of their new songs that had the whole floor hopping, and he’d sung until the small hours of the morning, then played the new songs through for Spencer as the janitor had swept the floors and put the chairs up on the tables. “Come back to bed.” He gestured with the hand out of the covers.

“I can’t,” Spencer said, though his reflection in the mirror looked regretful. “I have a meeting. I brought you coffee.”

The cup steamed on the nightstand, and Brendon sat up and drank gratefully. There was a pastry next to it, from the bakery downstairs, still hot.

“You got up early enough to get one of Marie’s pastries?” Brendon asked. He tore a piece off and chewed.

“I had some things to go over,” Spencer said. He sat on the edge of the bed and stole Brendon’s cup, taking a sip. “I have an early meeting with some label people, remember? Patrick and Ray are being completely stiffed on those songs. And I thought _I_ was a con man. It’s daylight robbery.”

“And not the fun kind,” Brendon said. He dipped his hand into Spencer’s pocket, pulled out his watch to check the time. “How early is early?”

“Too early for what you’re thinking,” Spencer said, but he gave him a coffee-tinged kiss before taking the watch back. “I’m stopping by the Rialto too. They want you to do a guest slot. For the right price.“

Brendon reached over and did up Spencer’s tie, snugging the knot up tight, and then took the hat off the bed post, Spencer’s favorite bowler.

“Go on then, Spencer Smith.” He kissed Spencer’s nose, and put the hat on his head. “Get us some honest work.”

“Only for you,” Spencer said. “Only for you.” And they were both laughing as they kissed again, as the spring sun grew slowly stronger through the blinds, and the birds sang a song that sounded a lot like contentment.


End file.
